A Matter of Trust
by kaleidopy
Summary: Convinced someone threatens his reign, Denethor's search for the unknown rebel turns into an obsession, and none are above suspicion. While narrowing his list of suspects, a disturbing crisis arises in another fiefdom, forcing the Ithilien rangers to the breaking point.
1. Chapter 1

Plot summary: Convinced someone threatens his reign, Denethor's search for the unknown rebel turns into an obsession, and none are above suspicion. While narrowing his list of suspects, a disturbing crisis arises in Ithilien, forcing Faramir's rangers to the breaking point.

**Author Notes**: I'm not going to embarrass myself trying to mimic Tolkien's writing style. I can't do it, nor will I insult anyone, including myself, with a feeble attempt. The characters you recognize belong to Tolkien, or New Line Cinema. That being said, this story is based in movie verse with several book canon characters tossed in.

**Timeframe:**_ Pre-War of the Ring. The Year: 3004 Third Age._

A Matter of Trust

**Kaleidopy**

Chapter One

The lone figure nervously paced the length of the large chamber, carefully side stepping the snoring man leaned against the cave wall. He picked up the rough wool blanket wadded nearby and noticed the overturned jug underneath. Drunken words uttered in sleep passed unnoticed, and he tossed the blanket haphazardly around the drunk's body.

If his simple act of kindness was appreciated, the seven men inside the cave guarding him paid no notice, instead, they continued with their gambling game. He sighed deeply and resumed his pacing, listening to the back of his robe dragging behind him in the sand.

Due to his late night kidnapping, he was unprepared for his present predicament. He was cold, barefoot, and dressed only in a long dark nightshirt and robe. If he weren't so angry, he would have been grateful his capturers managed to grab his robe when they took him from his home and brought him blindfolded to this cave.

The cave was damp, not well lit, and drafty. "Can I have a blanket?" he asked, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest trying to gain some warmth.

One of his capturers looked up, and grinned through rotting teeth. "This is not Minas Tirith. We live off the land." He started snickering, elbowing one of his companions. "Or steal what we can."

He rolled his eyes and resumed his pacing. He had no measure of time, or any idea where he was, or how long he had been inside the cave. When he was freed, he found himself inside this chamber with no idea which direction would lead him towards the entrance.

The large chamber, which appeared to be a living quarters for several people was spacious enough to hold several makeshift tables, and in the center of the room, a pile of wood stacked next to a large cauldron.

The sound of an incautious step focused his attention on the darkest part of the chamber. A faint glow grew and then flared as a torch emerged from the previously hidden passage a moment later. A man, cloaked in a dark hood and cape, stopped just inside the passage. "You have news?" With a sigh, he nodded, and the man turned back down the passage and said in a deep baritone voice, "Follow me."

He obeyed, fearing for his life if he refused the request. As he followed his guide, he lost count how many times his shoulder hit the wall while he twisted and turned inside the narrow passage. A gust of wind blew through the tunnel, propelling dirt and the sickeningly sweet stench of death into his face. Squinting against the assault, he choked on both irritants, trying to filter out the worst of it by clamping his sleeve over his nose and mouth. His guide seemed unaffected by the bombardment and he quickened his pace to keep up.

The passage opened into a well-lit, irregular hexagon shaped compartment with a sandy floor, and many exits that led to other passageways. As they stepped into the compartment, the smell of death hung in the air and assaulted his senses. Twenty years ago, he had been assigned body retrieval duty after Gondor reclaimed Osgiliath, and the odor still haunted his senses and memories.

Three armed men approached and spoke with the guide. While they whispered amongst themselves, he studied his surroundings, wanting to know what type of people he had gotten himself involved with.

Torches placed in pairs along the walls, brightened the chamber with enough light it could easy pass as daylight. He turned his attention to the longest side of the compartment, and his question was answered the second he observed the five seven-foot poles buried in the sandy floor. As he eyes traveled up the length of the first pole, curiosity turned to horror when he realized the dark stains on the wood were not natural discolorations as he first thought, but dried bloodstains. He tried to turn his eyes away from the gruesome sight, but they were drawn up past the manacles and along the dangling chains to a ring driven deep into the wood at the top of the pole.

He quickly turned away, unable to comprehend what he had discovered. He took several deep breaths, attempting to keep himself from retching and forced his nauseous stomach to settle.

"Remain close, least you become lost," the guide instructed, startling him from his fixation with the pole. They entered another passageway without turning around. Several long minutes passed into silence until the tunnel opened into two separate rooms. "In here," the man instructed, pointing to the larger chamber.

He obeyed, and waited until the private room was lit with the torch before he felt safe enough to speak. "Your deeds have been kept from the public," he revealed. For the first time, the guide's features were visible. The graying hair, flowing elegantly down the shoulders bestowed a regal appearance upon the guide, and the beard, mixed with silver and black was surprisingly trim, but what caught the visitor's attention were the two thin braids woven tightly on each side of the face. The strings used to weave the braids were gold. When the guide looked back at him, he continued, "The council and military leaders fear knowledge would cause panic."

"And Lord Denethor?" the guide asked, sitting down on a large smooth stone structure carved out of the living rock.

Surprised by the interest in the steward, he answered. "He calls you a sadist, as does the council and…"

"Sadist," the man laughed, repeating the word several times. He sunk deeper into the stone structure. "I care not what those in power call me, just as long as they fear me."

"How can one fear when one knows not whom they face?" he asked, attempting to learn the other man's identity. Though they had only communicated by a mutual acquaintance and a few letters, he never knew this man's name. "The council believes you to be a spawn from Mordor."

"Let them believe I am Sauron himself."

"I know not what direction to serve you," he said, studying the man carefully. Last night, he had been attacked while he slept and before he could react, a sack was placed over his head. Unable to identify his assailants or learning which direction he was taken, he could only wait helplessly until he was unrestrained.

"You will be my eyes and ears inside the white city." The dark eyes stared back with such intensity the visitor felt the steward himself was scrutinizing him. "Remember, it was you, not I, who requested this face-to-face meeting. Fail me and you life is forfeited."

He bit his lip, understanding the underlining threat. Though he feared this individual, what scared him most was Denethor discovering his treachery. The steward's justice was notorious, and Denethor never allowed his opponent the opportunity to have remorse or retaliate against him.

Was two thousand pieces of mirian worth the price of treason?


	2. Chapter 2

**A Matter of Trust**

**Kaleidopy**

Chapter Two

**_Minas Tirith_ **

Darkness of night covered the land. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, used the late hour to conceal his destination. His guards, posted outside his private chambers, believed him asleep and would not disturb him until morning. He grabbed a torch from the closest holder, manipulated the catches to a hidden door, and pushed it opened. Carefully closing the door behind him, he started the long climb up the Tower of Ecthelion.

Messages had arrived, confirming each province lord would attend or be represented for the scheduled council meeting midday tomorrow. Several of the lords had arrived a day early, making deals amongst themselves while Denethor concentrated on a more urgent matter—the Plantar. Though politics, taxes, strained province budgets and the constant threat of Mordor kept him occupied, something else concerned him more. Mithrandir.

The Istari had arrived, unexpectedly, requesting permission to access the archives. Though Denethor never pressed Mithrandir for an explanation, he knew the Istari wanted to dethrone him as head of Gondor's sitting power. Apparently, Mithrandir believed something existed in the archives that would gain him evidence to attempt such a feat.

Denethor laughed to himself. He had played ignorant to Mithrandir's schemes, granting the old fool access to the ancient achieves whenever he visited Minas Tirith. The act pacified the Istari and silenced those who believed him jealous of Mithrandir.

Jealous? No. The only thing he felt towards the pessimist was antipathy. Since the Istari first crossed his path, Mithrandir had done nothing but meddle in his affairs. He had thought the Istari's endless pursuits to supplant him had been the worst of Mithrandir's deceit, but that belief had been foolishly flawed. No, Mithrandir's treachery ran deeper, and struck closer to Denethor's heart. The Istari's true quest was to steal his youngest son's loyalty.

Though it had been six years past, Denethor recalled the incident as if it had happened this dawn.

_That morning, he entered the library, expecting to find Mithrandir in the lower levels sitting behind a large table reading the ancient scrolls. The fresh scent of pipe-weed in the air confirmed his belief. He started down the stairs leading to the lower levels to speak with the Istari, stopping when he heard voice. It seemed that Mithrandir had requested a scribe to assist him in gathering Gondor's historical information. The proud Steward of Gondor decided to have the conversation later in a more private setting. _

_He never intended to eavesdrop until he heard Faramir's voice. Curious, Denethor listened as his youngest son's eager voice explained the Battle of Dagorlad to a very appreciative audience. What the boy revealed did not risk Gondor's security and if it kept Mithrandir entertained, Denethor was that much happier. Satisfied, he started back up the stairs, planning to return to his study. When Faramir mentioned Rivendell, Denethor's head shot up, and a cold shiver swept through his body. Finally, he realized the Istari's true plan. _

Mithrandir had carefully sought out the one person who would provide him with the information he required in exchange for tales of elves, creatures and lands of Middle Earth. Denethor didn't know which of the two upset him the most. Mithrandir for using his son for political gain, or Faramir, for being too naïve to realize he was being exploited.

He had thought long and hard how to handle the situation. Banning his son from Mithrandir's company would have been counterproductive. As much as he hated the association between his son and the Istari, Denethor permitted it, if only to monitor the Istari's activities in Minas Tirith.

He stared up the winding staircase as his thoughts returned to the present. The stairway never seemed as long and dark as it did this night, or perhaps his thoughts of Mithrandir made it appear as such. He waited a moment, giving himself a chance to catch his breath before continuing his climb. Moments later, he reached his destination, and closed the door behind him, guaranteeing the room remained his greatest secret.

He moved to a far corner, using the torch to guide his path. He found an empty bracket, stuffed the torch inside, and then moved to the center of the room. The torch illuminated the small room, giving Denethor the freedom he needed to use both hands for the task ahead.

The steward squeezed his hands into fists, closed his eyes and prepared himself. His mind clear, and his thoughts focused on the object in front of him, Denethor removed the soft textured, dark blue material covering the Palantir.

He picked up the dark ball, feeling the familiar tingling enter his body. The sensation lasted briefly and Denethor felt a renewed power surge through his hands. Whispered words spoken long ago touched the edge of his consciousness. Mithrandir would never overshadow him as long as he commanded the Palantír.

As if reading his thoughts, the Palantir showed him an isolated table deep inside the bowels of the library. Behind it, Mithrandir was seated, studying an old parchment, and frowning at what he was reading. Several scrolls and opened books were tossed in disarray about the table. Obviously, the Istari wasn't having any success in his research. "Foolish doomsayer," Denethor laughed, "You believe yourself wise, and yet your plots against me, flourish not."

With Mithrandir occupied inside the archives, Denethor turned his thoughts to others he had monitored over the years. Several of the fiefdom lords and nobles appeared within the Palantir. Lords Angbor and Golasgil laughed heartily, each holding a mug of ale inside one of the taverns. Their reputation of drinking anyone under the table remained unbroken.

The Palantir showed a married noble visiting a brothel on the fourth level, and Denethor quickly filed that information away for future reference. When dealing with politicians, one used any means possible to gain an upper hand.

Over the years, the Palantir had provided him with candid information that not only captivated, but kept the staff council, nobles, and anyone else under his control. None openly questioned his abilities, believing he possessed the gift of reading minds. Denethor never encouraged such rumors, but he never denied them either, which only added to his fame.

As the Palantir's focus returned to the library, he laughed, watching as an agitated Mithrandir slammed a dusty book down on the table. The humor vanished when he heard his adversary's words. "When is Lord Faramir expected in the city?" the Istari asked no one in particular. "I could use his help."

"No! You will not use my son against me," Denethor gasped, icy fingers clinched at his heart and squeezed his greatest fear from his soul. As if prompted, the Palantir revealed an island, he easily recognized as Cair Andros. Two rangers emerged, leading their horses from the woods.

"We are at an disadvantage without daylight to guide our path," Mablung said, shifting his bulk to steady himself on the animal. Never comfortable riding a horse, especially at night, he made his feelings known. "Osgiliath is thirty miles south, and we have yet to…."

"Fear not, we will reach the white city before dawn," Faramir stated, reaching inside his tunic to retrieve two small apples. His horse whinnied, excited to have the delicious treat. The captain obliged, giving an apple to each horse. "We have a long journey, my friends," he said, softly speaking to the horses as they ate. "Minas Tirith awaits us. Can we arrive in six hours?"

Mablung smiled, watching the horses nod at the captain's question. Long ago, he had given up being amazed by Faramir's ability to communicate with animals. Of course, he had a few surprises of his own. He turned his head, whistled, and several men on horseback rode out of the woods.

Confused at the new arrivals, Faramir glanced at his lieutenant. "I gave no order for additional riders. Madril will…."

"With all due respect, Captain, Madril suggested the extra men." Mablung hid the humor in his voice when Faramir's mouth dropped open. At Henneth Annûn, Faramir and Madril had briefly disagreed over an appropriate number to escort the captain to Minas Tirith. "Believe this not to be a betrayal, Captain," he said, explaining Madril's reasoning behind challenging Faramir's order. "With the recent killings, orc sightings, and our numbers dwindling, he felt your journey to Minas Tirith was too dangerous to risk without proper escort."

"Mablung, I refuse to be given special treatment because…."

"Hear my words, Faramir," Mablung said, addressing the younger man by his name instead of his military title. "Madril's decision was not his alone." He placed his hand on the captain's shoulder. "Everyone agreed with him. Accept this for the meaning it carries; we protect our own."

Faramir's eyes misted, and he turned his head to conceal his emotions. "We ride to Osgiliath," he shouted, regaining his composure to lead the men across the island.

Denethor ran his hand over his mouth, amazed at the loyalty the rangers had for his son. As he watched the riders leave Cair Andros, a deep menacing thought crept into the back of his mind. Such loyalty could be used to overthrow… No, he quickly dismissed the thought. Faramir was loyal to him, completely loyal. His son obeying the harsh and undignified summons only proved that fact. He knew the summons had disrupted his son's strategic planning for the Ithilien Rangers, but if it kept Faramir from Mithrandir's clutches, then Denethor was satisfied. Inconvenience never hurt anyone.

When he looked into the Palantir again, the Istari was walking across the courtyard towards the citadel gate, Denethor couldn't contain his happiness. The Istari was leaving the city without the information he desired or his usual ally to assist him. A crooked smile formed across his lips, thrilled his plan had worked so well.

Confident that things had been righted, he replaced the Palantir on the pedestal and walked to the western window. The thick burlap material covering the window prevented anyone from noticing the room whenever he used the stone. He checked the torch's intensity; satisfied it had diminished to a safe level where its light would not detected if he opened the window.

He removed the bulky material, nonchalantly dropped it by his feet and looked out. A gentle breeze caressed his face, circulating the room with fragrances from the herbs and flowers sold in the market on the second level of the city.

Small campfires, too many to count, flickered with glowing reassurance in Osgiliath. The mighty stone bridge, rebuilt, and spanning across the river, buzzed with activity, and sentries stationed inside the towers, provided the necessary advantage to alert the eastern garrison of an enemies' approach. Osgiliath, fortified, and maintained, gave a sense of security for Minas Tirith's population.

Denethor glanced further into the distance, trying to distinguish the Ithilien forest in the darkness. It had been a few weeks since the last killings had been reported, but that did nothing to ease his mind. Somewhere in Ithilien, lurked a being that gratified in the brutal murders of his victims, and never had he felt more powerless than he did now. Perhaps he should seek answers elsewhere, but not tonight.

He returned to the black seeing stone, ready to leave the room and return to his private chambers to get a few hours sleep before his son's arrival. He grabbed the blue brocade fabric intending to cover the Palantir, however, the River Anduin flowed within the globe, and Denethor found himself drawn, yet again to the glass.

For several long seconds, Denethor watched the River Anduin run tranquilly, undisturbed with no indication of danger. Never had the sphere misled or tricked him with its power. His curiosity peaked, speculating what was amiss when two small poorly constructed rafts floated into view.

Both rafts, heavily crowded were in jeopardy of sinking. Its passengers, using whatever items they could gather, made a desperate attempt to keep it afloat while steering it eastward towards Ithilien.

Ithilien? What insanity was this? Why would people risk their lives to enter the dangerous woods of Ithilien? Concerned, he stared deeper into the Palantir, searching for answers to his people's discontent.

Another image formed, angry people chanting his name vilely, shook their fists in the air. The crowd turned into a mob, rebelling in a small village he could not identify. They chanted his name in antipathy, while burning and destroying anything that resembled Gondorian authority.

Images flashed, taunting him with faces of nobles, lords, and family members. Was this the future? Did those closest to him intend to rebel against his reign? No, it was not possible. The Palantir did not have the capability to predict the future, or did it? Unable to withstand the truth, Denethor covered the stone and stepped back, surprised how drained and tired he had suddenly become.

"Gondor is mine," he shouted at the Palantir. "I alone keep Mordor at bay. I am the one who protects Middle Earth from Sauron." He stumbled a step backwards, and regained his balance before he turned to leave the room. "No Istari, pretend king, or rebel will take what is rightfully mine."


	3. Chapter 3

A Matter of Trust

Kaleidopy

Ithilien

A familiar mimic birdcall sounded, announcing the arrival of the scouting party. Damrod rose from his crouched position, waiting patiently for Anborn to make his appearance. The moon-less night made visibility difficult, but living in the Ithilien Forest for nearly ten years had trained his eyes to adjust to the dark surroundings.

His keen sense of hearing heard a twig snap. Instinct and experience had taught him precaution; he readied his bow, preparing to strike in case the enemy had learned the ranger's secret call. His unit followed his example, anxiously waiting for whatever awaited them to make an appearance.

Seconds later, Anborn emerged from the thick shrubbery with several weary rangers trailing close behind. "Lower your bows," Damrod instructed, releasing a sigh of relief when Anborn's party was identified, they were tired but otherwise unharmed.

Since the ambush of a small scouting company patrolling near the crosswords two weeks ago, the rangers had become more edgy than usual. Finding the mutilated bodies of fifteen men discarded along the Harad Road would strike fear into the bravest of souls, but when the decapitated heads of the slain men were discovered hanging from a grove of trees, fear quickly turned to retribution. Somewhere in Ithilien, lurked sadists who enjoyed their profession. Whether the sadists were Gondorian, Rohirrim, or agents of Sauron, they had to be captured.

However, the hunt for the sadists were short lived when scouts discovered citizens crossing the Anduin to enter the orc infested Ithilien.

Concerned about the citizens' sanity as well as their safety, the scouting party escorted their fellow Gondorians back across the great river, and urged them to return home or seek settlement in another fiefdom.

If the rangers believed it was a one-time incident, they were sadly mistaken. A week later, another group attempted the same feat and met with the same result. When the travelers revealed they were settlers from Lossarnach, and had crossed the River Anduin, suspicion grew among the rangers. Something odd was happening in Lossarnach.

"What news, Anborn?" Damrod asked, clasping the younger man's arm in greeting.

"Madril sends word from Henneth Annûn. No orcs between Osgiliath and Cair Andros." Anborn said, lowering his hood to address his commanding officer. He untied a small pouch that was tied to his belt and gave it to Damrod. "Camgond brings messages from other companies. Furthermore, we hurried a small group of orcs near the crossways."

"Survivors?"

"Two. They retreated into Mordor."

Damrod sighed, dreading the report he would have to give his captain. "The steward will blame…"

"The steward need not know," Anborn said, quickly lowering his voice. "Tis not right. The rangers patrol Ithilien and aids the garrisons at Osgiliath and Cair Andres, yet Lord Denethor denies credit…"

"Hold your tongue," the lieutenant commanded, silencing the angry ranger with his sharp tongue. Three new recruits assigned to his unit glanced up after overhearing Anborn's remark. Damrod held their gaze until they lowered their eyes or turned away. As much as he hated reprimanding Anborn openly, protocol remained a priority until the new recruits earned his trust.

"Apologies, lieutenant," Anborn replied with a slight bow, realizing the mistake he had made. As a seasoned ranger, he knew better than to speak openly in front of those who had yet to earn the respect of the Ithilien Rangers. He intentionally raised his voice, making sure the eavesdroppers heard his choice words. "My words were poorly chosen. I blame fatigue and hunger."

The feigned apology had the desired effect both rangers wanted. The tension in the air lifted and the recruits began speaking to one another in soft voices.

Damrod walked several feet to a more isolated location, motioning Anborn to follow. Anborn had stated what many felt, himself included, but respect for Faramir kept those feelings buried whenever their captain was in their company.

Once the two men were alone, Damrod whispered, "Would you have me write falsehoods in my report? You know well, the captain carries them when he speaks with the council."

Anborn cringed, hearing the council mentioned. He had no love for the politics of Minas Tirith or the fiefdom lords who considered Ithilien a liability when it came to enforcing Gondor's military borders. "If it protects Captain Faramir's position, aye," Anborn answered. "Mablung, and many others would agree with me."

Anborn spoke the truth. Faramir need not know. Whenever the council gathered in Minas Tirith for the quarterly meeting, the captain graciously allowed different rangers to accompany him to the white city, granting them freedom to enjoy the luxuries denied in the Ithilien woods. The one time Damrod accompanied Faramir, he irrationally joined his captain inside the conference chambers. A bureaucrat representing Lamedon considered Ithilien a burden, and made a request to divert Ithilien's funds for items that were laughable.

Nevertheless, Faramir had remained diplomatic, respecting the fool's position, but Damrod wasn't held to those standards. He angrily voiced his opinion until the citadel guards forcibly escorted him from the tower hall. Later a guard joined him in a tavern, and told him what had happened after his expulsion. Lord Angbor had apologized to the council for the official's behavior, but asked why Gondor continued to supply and fund Ithilien when its citizens had evacuated the region long ago. The steward declared as long as the rangers kept Sauron's allies from reaching the River Anduin, Ithilien would be appropriately maintained.

The unpleasant memory decided Damrod's dilemma. He would falsify the report and live with the consequences. Two orcs were not worth another unpleasant trip to Minas Tirith. He turned to the ranger, noticing the man kept looking over his shoulder. Suspicious, he asked, "Anborn, what troubles you?"

Anborn sighed, reluctant to add more grief to the lieutenant's list. "Sir, we have guests. From Lossarnach."

"How many?" Damrod asked. The routine was becoming a nuisance.

"Seven and ten," Anborn answered, nodding towards another ranger who disappeared into the shrubbery and returned with ten men and seven women. Each glanced nervously at one another but none spoke. Anborn added, "Tis the third time in as many days travelers have entered Ithilien from Lossarnach."

"We will not go back," a man suddenly found the courage to speak.

Damrod turned to a man, believing him to be the spokesperson. "What say you?"

"Lossarnach is naught what it appears," the man answered, and then lowered his eyes to avoid the ranger's inquiring eyes. "Taxes have increased twice in as many months, and those who cannot pay, have their lands seized. The people talk of rebellion."

"Rebellion?" Damrod asked, doubt lacing his words. Mutters echoed in confusion nearby. Lord Forlong was a respectable man, beloved by not only his people but by the Rangers of Ithilien as well. Forlong understood the rangers' worth and value to Gondor's safety. He secretly provided the rangers of Ithilien with food, clothing, and equipment when the Gondorian council refused such rare request. Rebellion against the beloved lord was unimaginable.

"Lord Forlong is an honorable man. Speak not against his rule." Anborn warned. "The lord of Lossarnach travels to Lamedon. Others rule in his stead under orders by the Steward of Gondor."

"Tis what I feared," the man spoke again. He angrily turned to his companions. "Power corrupts even the honorable steward. Lord Denethor is in league with…"

The words fell silent, but Damrod understood their meaning and fear the citizens suddenly felt. Speaking publicly against the powerful steward carried a high penalty. "Fear not," he said, attempting to ease their suspicions. "Your words will naught reach Lord Denethor's ears."

"Gratitude, kind sir," the woman replied, releasing a relieved sigh. She finally felt secure enough to speak the truth. "Many tried to cross into Lebennin but discovered the south road blocked by mercenaries. The White Mountains, we cannot attempt, and entering Osgiliath is too dangerous." She turned back towards the direction of the river. "The River Anduin remained the only choice to reach Pelargir, but our raft broke apart and we drifted into Ithilien."

"Ithilien is naught our destination," another man replied. He glanced worriedly into the forest, noticing how dark, dank and evil the land appeared. "We will travel southward, along the river's shore and make our way to Pelargir."

"Nay, tis too dangerous. Several rangers will escort you safely across the river and into Lebennin," Damrod said. Under the military and council's orders, the sadist killings were kept quiet so not to alarm the surrounding provinces' population. He turned to two rangers, calling their names. "Offer our guests provisions and provide them accommodations for the night. In the morn, you and thirty men will escort our guests to their destination."

The two rangers nodded respectfully and directed the group towards a grove of trees.

The woman stayed behind. "The Ithilien Rangers and their commander are honorable men." She squeezed the lieutenant's arm, smiling for the first time. "My brother is a guard. A guard of the Citadel," she announced proudly. "He speaks only of respect for your captain."

"Captain Faramir would be honored by your kind words," Damrod said, wishing Faramir had delayed his trip to Minas Tirith long enough to have witnessed what his ears had just heard. Complements were rare, especially where their young captain was concerned. Since his promotion nine months ago, Faramir worked non-stop to prove to those in certain circles that his rank was earned, not given.

"I would like to met the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers."

"Naught would please me more, however, Captain Faramir is with another company this night," Damrod answered. Noticing her disappointment, he added, "Doubt not, the captain will be told of your plight and your kind words. Now join your companions. The trip is long and the hours until morn are short."

She nodded, obeying with another gratitude of thanks.

He watched the woman follow her companions into the darkness where they would be escorted to a secure location for the night. Thankfully, it wasn't too chilled to cause any discomfort for the woman and her friends. With fires forbidden, unprepared visitors traveling with the rangers found themselves second-guessing their decision.

With the unexpected arrival of the Lossarnachians, Damrod had to reassign several men from his unit to accommodate the group, and messages needed to be sent to the captain and the other lieutenants over the recent events. Informing Madril at Henneth Annûn would be the easiest, but reaching Faramir would prove the most difficult.

Yesterday, the steward's personal messenger had arrived unexpectedly, interrupting a late evening strategy session between Faramir and his lieutenants. After the message had been delivered, the captain learned he was ordered to Minas Tirith before dawn.

"Anborn," he called, signaling the ranger to his side. "Send Camgond to Cair Andres. Perhaps he can intercept the captain before he leaves the island for Minas Tirith."

"With all due respect, sir. The captain left hours ago," Anborn said, glancing up into the night sky. "And judging by the stars position, he should have already left Cair Andres."

Contradicting Anborn would have been useless. The ranger possessed the unique ability to quote time by a simple glance at the sky, and then use that skill to judge travel time. Anborn's gifts proved valuable during scouting detail, travel planning, and unit placement.

He glanced upwards, staring at the stars twinkling back at him. Perhaps the Valar had finally smiled on the rangers this night. Though Hirgon's arrival with the steward's summons had been unforeseen, it justified him not informing the captain of tonight's events.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Matter of Trust**

**Kaleidopy**

Chapter FourMinas Tirith 

Dawn's pending arrival over Middle Earth was announced by pink and orange flares of color mixing with the fading dark of night. The warning horn blew alerting the city of approaching riders galloping across the Pelennor Fields.

As guards scrambled into position, preparing their weapons, sentries standing atop the great gate squinted their eyes trying to identify the flag one of the riders on horseback carried. Darkness gave way to daylight and the silver swan-prowed ship on a blue flag became clearer.

"It's the Swan Knights," a sentry shouted, recognizing the riders' flag. The visitors identified, the archers lowered their bows and relaxed their guard as the great gate opened to allow a company of the legendary Swan Knights of Dol Amroth entrance into the city.

Imrahil, heir to Prince Adrahil, led the knights through the great gate and into the large courtyard to a curious crowd gathered to witness their arrival. His horse circled the large statue in the middle of the courtyard while he waited for his men to dismount their horses. A glance at the city wall revealed nothing had changed since his last visit to Minas Tirith five years ago, and if his father hadn't been gravely ill, Imrahil wouldn't have made the trip this time.

Minas Tirith was a beautiful city, there was no mistaking the glory and prestige the city proclaimed with its giant white walls, gardens, and the citadel, but the White city could not claim the sea air and the wildlife that Dol Amroth boasted. Belfalas served two purposes; the Bay of Belfalas surrounded the fiefdom, and the distance between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith provided Imrahil the validation he needed to maintain a peaceful existence between himself and Denethor.

As Prince Adrahil's heir, Imrahil was duty bound to act as emissary for Belfalas in his father's stead. Boorish meetings were nothing new to Imrahil, however, this time, his voice would only be one of several vying for the steward's attention and a share of Gondor's budget. Though he respected his brother-in-law, both as a kinsman and the steward of Gondor, there were times when Denethor's pride drove a wedge as wide as the River Anduin between the steward and his family at Dol Amroth.

With his men settled, and their horses stabled, Imrahil rode to the citadel determined to speak with Denethor before the morning routines had a chance to invade the steward's time. For once, Imrahil wanted Denethor on his own terms, and if the arrogant steward had to be woken to accomplish that feat, so be it.

Guards saluted him, and several nobles, surprisingly up at the early hour, bowed respectfully as he dismounted his horse. Imrahil removed his riding gloves while a man stepped forward in an attempt to escort him to his lodgings. "Inform Lord Denethor of my arrival," he said, "I wish to speak with him upon his earliest convenience."

"The Lord Steward is inside the Tower of Ecthelion with…."

"I will see him now," Imrahil said, interrupting the man. Regardless of which fiefdom lord held Denethor's counsel, his information could not wait. He climbed the stone steps, quickly acknowledging the guards as he walked inside. As a recognizable noble, and a kinsman of the steward, Imrahil never had his authority questioned.

Inside the tower hall, Imrahil heard voices in the distance. Pinpointing their location near the steward's chair, Imrahil moved in that direction. The sun had not risen high enough to shine through the windows as he made his trek to the end of the hall. Denethor's voice was easily detected, and Imrahil heard the steward issue a muttered greeting that meant the conversation had just started.

Another voice, speaking soft words with such sadness that Imrahil instantly regretted his hasty decision to enter the hall without being announced. If he had interrupted someone receiving news of a loved one's death, Imrahil would never forgive himself for his discourtesy. His brother-in-law's back faced him, and due to the lack of light inside the hall, Imrahil could not identify the other man, who was smaller in statue, who held the steward's attention.

"The situation has become critical. Blame not yourself for what has happened," Denethor said, placing his hand on the other man's shoulders. Compassion was something the steward rarely exhibited publicly. Imrahil stepped closer, believing his nephew, Boromir, the recipient of such a rarity. Denethor's favoritism towards his eldest son was well known within the family. "The council will take steps to prevent…" Denethor paused, and spun around so fast, surprising anyone who would have doubted the steward's agility. "Imrahil," he hissed, glaring at the stunned newcomer. "Have you not the courtesy to announce yourself?"

Imrahil bowed, embarrassed by the turn of events. How the steward detected his presence he did not know, but he quickly apologized for his mistake in judgment. "Lord Denethor, forgive my interruption," he said, stepping forward. "It is most urgent I speak with you. It concerns Brandir."

"Brandir?" Denethor whispered, watching Imrahil nod accordingly. Thirty-three years had passed since the steward last heard that name. The urgency in Imrahil's visit became all too clear.

"Uncle?" Faramir stepped out of the shadows and hurried to his uncle's side.

Imrahil's heart skipped a beat. As much as he loved Boromir, it was Denethor's youngest who reminded him so much of his late sister, Finduilas. Both mother and son shared the same blue eyes, and the same gentle disposition. He pulled the young man into his embrace, holding him tightly as the precious legacy Finduilas left behind.

Unexpectedly Faramir pulled out of the embrace and glanced behind Imrahil, searching for someone. Several seconds passed before realization set in. "Grandfather?" his nephew asked almost pleading for reassurance that his beloved grandfather still lived. Concern quickly turned to sorrow when Imrahil hesitated. Speculating the worst, tears formed, and regret soon followed. "I had promised to visit, but I have yet to..."

"No lad, Adrahil still lives," Imrahil answered, placing his hands on his nephew's shoulders. If he hoped the news would calm the young man, he was disappointed. Faramir shivered violently and quickly turned his head unable to face his uncle's prying eyes. Imrahil grasped the inedible. "You had another premonition."

"I had a dream," Faramir admitted, reluctant to reveal anything more when Denethor gave a disapproving stare.

"Faramir, your uncle cares not for such nonsense. Dreams are..."

"I would like to hear this dream, Lord Denethor," Imrahil said sternly. His nephew's dreams usually predicted foretelling events, but if he wanted to hear Faramir's latest dream, he had to appease the steward. He swallowed his pride and played to Denethor's ego. "My Lord, I overstepped my place. I offer my deepest apologies, and ask that you grant my request."

Denethor's angry expression softened, and with a subdued wave, he returned to the steward's chair. "Speak child. Keep us not in suspense. Time is better suited for more important duties, yet you delay unnecessary."

Why Denethor refused to accept the value of Faramir's dreams, Imrahil could not understand. The steward himself possessed the same ability, yet scorns his own son for the same gift. Imrahil shook his head in bewilderment. He placed his hands on his nephew's shoulders in a show of support.

With an appreciated nod, Faramir began explaining the foretelling dream. "Eight knights baring the breastplate of Dol Amroth carried a small boat to the seashore," the voice lowered, whispering each word as if under a hypnotic spell. "Uncle, you followed, carrying a torch in one hand and a long silver sword in the other. The sword was placed inside the boat, and the torch lowered…"

"Father's time is near," Imrahil said hastily. The dream was an omen. Faramir had described the funeral ceremony for a Prince of Dol Amroth.

Faramir turned back to his father. "My Lord," the young man called, waiting for the steward to acknowledge him. Denethor appeared troubled, staring at nothing in particular. Concerned, Faramir approached the black chair, reached out and clasped the steward's arm. "Father, are you ill?"

Denethor gasped, startled to find his son staring bewilderedly at him. He hadn't realized his thoughts had drifted to the past until Faramir touched him. Knowing his son's curious nature, Denethor had to rethink his plans. What he wanted to discuss with Imrahil had to be said in private. "We will talk later, my son. You have traveled far and at haste. Go and rest." he said, finding the perfect excuse to dismiss his son. "I must speak with your uncle on a personal matter."

"Father, I…"

"Your report can wait until council," Denethor said, intending to end the conversation once and for all. "Blame this insolence on tiredness."

"Father, I beg your indulgence," his son pleaded with urgency. "I…"

"I spoke not a request, Faramir,," Denethor warned, livid at the disrespect his own flesh and blood dared to present. Could not his son disgrace himself any further? It never failed. No matter the circumstances, Faramir always strived to antagonize him. If only his youngest possessed a fraction of Boromir's qualities then Gondor's future would be certain. Alas, it was for naught. The boy would never measure up to expectation. Denethor waved his hand, dismissing his son as one would swat at a fly. "Be gone. You have your orders."

"Father, if you care not for my report, why summon…"

"Tempt not my patience, Captain. Should you require a reduction in rank before your obedience to your lord is fulfilled?" Denethor shouted, piercing his son with a stern gaze that silenced any further disobedience. He narrowed his eyes, using the one weapon that kept his youngest in line- condemnation. "Against my counsel, Boromir championed your commission for captain. Now you stand before me, shaming your lord and your brother by your defiance. Tell me my son, was Boromir mistaken?"

At the mention of Boromir's name, Faramir's face fell. "No, my Lord," the young man answered dryly. "I meant no disrespect."

"And yet you have," Denethor rebuffed. He moved past his son, walking across the stone floor towards the northern entrance. Faramir followed obediently keeping his thoughts to himself. Guards stationed by the large double doors reached for the large round doorknobs and pulled opened the doors, expecting the steward to exit the tower.

"Those who wish my counsel will wait here until announced. Permit no disturbance until I so order," Denethor said, addressing the two guards. Both men bowed, acknowledging the order. The steward turned back to his son, his anger still apparent. "Make no mistake, Captain, this order excuses you not. As I so deemed, you and I will continue this conversation at another time."

"I await your summons, my Lord," the captain replied, turning to leave the tower but the steward grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"Forgive your Lord's harsh words," Denethor said, quickly changing his strategy. He placed his hand on his son's shoulder ignoring the curious stares the guards gave one another. Let their tongues wag; it would not be the first time rumors circulated within the citadel, and he the recipient of such gossip. "Your counsel is urgent, this I know. Have faith in my judgment, for I realize the importance in your uncle's visit more than you. Return to me two hours after the noon bell."

Accepting the explanation without question, Faramir bowed his head in perfect reverence. Denethor watched the young man descend the steps and then the doors closed, shutting out the fresh air once again.

Denethor's mouth formed into a confident smile. Always a few kind words carefully spoken at just the right time, guaranteed Faramir's complete obedience. The boy craved approval, especially his father's, like a starving dog craved table scraps. Denethor had no doubt if the doors opened Faramir would be waiting at the bottom of the steps.

With that problem solved, Denethor returned to the throne room to handle the more urgent matter involving his brother-in-law. "Our conversation would be better suited in a more private location," he suggested, instructing Imrahil to follow him to his private study.

The two men walked the long hallway in silence. Guards stationed along the well-lit corridor followed the high ranking nobles with their eyes as the two made their way to their destination. Door sentries positioned outside the steward's private chambers bowed and opened the heavy doors.

Denethor repeated the no interruption order exemplify the repercussions if the order was disobeyed.

Imrahil entered the large chambers and walked out onto the balcony. "Perhaps Faramir…"

"Concern yourself not with Faramir, brother. He understands his duties and obeys his lord's will," Denethor said, moving along Imrahil's side. He glanced over the balcony and found the object of their conversation standing in the small courtyard. Several rangers flanked their captain, shouting words of encouragement to several boys practicing their archery.

A rare proud smile crept across Denethor's face.

Where had the time gone? His youngest, no longer the little boy who followed Boromir like a lost puppy, but a grown man who had somehow gained the respect and allocation of his people under his own terms.

His thoughts turned dark when a familiar and unwelcome figure crossed the courtyard.

Mithrandir.

"Many years has it been since I saw Gandalf last," Imrahil remarked with pride as his nephew embraced the Istari. "Faramir values his counsel as much as Father and I."

The comment received an angry scrawl from Denethor.

The Istari touched something hanging from Faramir's neck, and smiled with obvious approval.

Curious, Denethor leaned against the railing, trying to hear the conversation below, but too many voices, mixed with training sessions defeated his attempts. When Mithrandir placed an arm around Faramir's shoulders and the two walked away, Denethor realized that he would have to wait to learn what the two were discussing.

What his ears could not hear, the Plantar would reveal. He turned to leave the balcony, but Imrahil's suspicious eyes caused him to forget the Plantar. There would be time for him to use the stone later. First, he had to pacify Imrahil and then he would deal with the Istari later.

Imrahil. He seemed pleased to see the Istari, too pleased. Perhaps Imrahil's early arrival wasn't as urgent as he claimed. Could it be he knew Mithrandir was also in Minas Tirith? Was his kinsman in league with the Istari? He would learn the truth so enough. Nobody kept secrets from him long.

"Our conversation serves not the present but the past," Denethor said, sitting in the nearest chair. "Tell me what you will concerning your visit."


	5. Chapter 5

**A Matter of Trust**

**Kaleidopy**

Chapter Five Minas Tirith

Cheers rose to thunderous ovation drowning out the bells that chimed the tenth hour as two tired road weary riders entered the third level of the city. Word had spread quickly once the watchtower's horns announced the Captain General's arrival to Minas Tirith.

Berethond, Captain of the Osgiliath garrison, waved to the small children who chased behind them, chanting his companion's name in enthusiasm excitement. Women fought for dominance, trying to toss fresh flowers in the path of the Captain General's horse.

The scene repeated itself on every level they passed, but Boromir, Captain General of Gondor's army, only half-heartedly acknowledged the accolades being bestowed on him. Berethond smiled, understanding where his commander's thoughts lay. It had been almost four months since Boromir had last visited the city, and even longer since he had seen his younger brother.

People continued their adoration, oblivious of their hero's distraction. Either they didn't care, or were too ingenuous to notice, but as long as Boromir acknowledged their existence when he rode by, they were contented. Even promises of free drinks from his favorite pub could not lure Boromir away from his planned destination.

The crowds thinned considerably as they approached the sixth level, and only a few followed the two riders as they passed through the opened guarded gate. Respect for the sick and wounded, healing in the House of Healing, prevented the crowds from following their hero any further. The noise diminished significantly, and only the echoing of horseshoes striking cobblestone could be heard.

Moments later, Boromir slowed his horse, and dismounted when he approached the House of Healing. Berethond followed, noticing how quickly the building's windows filled with anxious faces excited to get a glimpse at Gondor's mightiest warrior.

As custom whenever he returned to the city, Boromir visited the wounded, offering words of comfort and encouragement, and thanking each soldier for their service to their country. Family members who kept a silent vigil for their dying loved ones, gladly stepped aside, allowing the steward's heir a moment with the dying soldier. After a few words, Boromir turned to the distraught, and consoled them as best as he could in such a public setting.

By the time Boromir and Berethond left the House of Healing, and mounted their horses, the sun was high in the sky and the temperature had risen noticeably to an unusual but comfortable climate. It wasn't until they approached the great arch that led to the citadel did Boromir command his horse to a quicker gallop.

"Hail the High Warden of the White Tower," a familiar voice yelled from atop the arch. Both men looked upward, smiling at the man bowing impressively with a style of grace the two older men could only envy. Faramir returned their smile, shouting the familiar greeting whenever the brothers met in Minas Tirith. "The heir apparent. The Captain General of Gondor's…"

"And your commanding officer, little brother," Boromir shouted back. Laughter erupted amongst the guards as Faramir disappeared from view. Boromir slung his leg over the side of his horse and dismounted, preparing himself for his brother's arrival. He held the reins, waiting for someone from the stables to take his horse. Berethond had already given the reins to a boy while the exchange between the brothers took place.

"Groom her well, boy," Boromir instructed as another boy approached and took the reins from his hand. He watched the two boys guide the animals to the stables before he and Berethond walked the rest of the way to the Citadel. Rank had its privileges, and those who rode in with the Captain General never had to give a password.

A horn blew announcing the Captain General's arrival in the citadel. Boromir closed his eyes, counting to himself how long before the list of favors started. With the Lords of Gondor in the city, it was only a matter of time before requests were made for his time.

"The city loves her hero," Faramir's welcome voice lured his dark thoughts to the one bright spot in Minas Tirith. "Welcome home, big brother."

Boromir embraced his brother, holding the younger man in his arms; thankful Faramir was once again under his protection. A moment later, the two separated oblivious of those around them. His brother's tired features caused Boromir concern, but voicing those concerns openly would draw unwanted attention. Publicly coddling the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers would be the nightly gossip in the taverns, and Boromir would be safer in Mordor once Faramir sought vengeance.

"Have you not outgrown mud pies, Faramir?" Berethond teased, cupping the younger man's chin to inspect the newly required beard. With a quick wink at Boromir, the knight added with laughter, "You forgot to wash your face."

"Unlike you, Captain, whose last bath, if legend hold true," the younger man sighed, trying to remember the memorable event, "took place during the War of the Last Alliance."

Loud laughter erupted from Boromir, earning the captain-general a glare from the tall knight.

"Boromir, I shall remember this betrayal," Berethond mused, returning his attention back to Faramir. "When next you travel in Osgiliath," he said, releasing the younger man with a subtle shove, "a dunk in the River Anduin will greet you, not the welcome reception you received this morn."

"You traveled through Osgiliath and did not wait for me, little brother?" Boromir asked, moving closer to the two men. He playfully tapped Faramir's cheek. "Avoiding me?"

"You had gone to Amon Dîn, Boromir. I could not wait." The lighthearted tone disappeared from Faramir's demeanor. "My orders were precise. Appear before the steward at dawn. You know Father's…"

"Dawn? He rises not until…" Boromir's voice trailed off, leaving the words unspoken. Unless it involved Gondor's security, there was no logical reason for anyone to be summoned at such an unreasonable hour. His brother must have ridden most of the night to comply with the command.

Lately their father's behavior puzzled him. Perhaps it was the burden of the stewardship, or the increasing threat of Mordor that weighed heavily on Denethor's mind these days.

"Captain Faramir," Mablung's voice called, dragging Boromir's thoughts away from his father. Faramir's trusty lieutenant and another man dressed in ranger gear approached. "Apologies, Captain General," Mablung said, bowing respectfully at Boromir, and ignoring Berethond completely. There was no love lost between the Osgiliath captain and the seasoned ranger. "I would not interrupt if I believe it not important."

"You wish a private audience with your captain?" Boromir asked, undaunted by the lieutenant's urgency. No matter what branch of Gondor's military he dealt with, he wanted his officers to feel comfortable around him.

"Yes, Milord," the lieutenant answered. "Camgond just arrived," indicating the ranger next to him. "He brings urgent word from Madril."

"And what say the old fox this time?" Berethond asked, running his hand through his thick dark brown mustache. His deep voice caught the ranger Camgond's attention, and when the newcomer glanced at him for the first time, Berethond pierced the ranger with a steel glare, intending to leave a first impression the ranger would never forget. Berethond stood a head taller than average and used it as an intimidation weapon. "Does he require more men to hide in the trees?"

Mablung's eyes narrowed, and angrily he stepped forward, ready to confront the much larger knight. Faramir placed a hand on the ranger's shoulder, silencing the lieutenant before an angry word could be uttered.

"Berethond," Boromir growled, reprimanding his childhood friend before his brother had the chance. Infuriating the rangers served no purpose, but Berethond had never been one to listen to reason whenever it concerned Madril or the rangers. The man was a knight, proudly wearing the armor whenever possible. His swordsmanship skills, unparalleled by only Boromir himself, were legendary. Berethond delighted in open warfare, not sneaking around in the woods like scroungers, he deemed the rangers.

"No offense Boromir," the Osgiliath captain stated, pointing to Camgond while he removed his gauntlets. "Here is an example of how our resources are wasted on Ithilien. This one and many others like him would benefit Osgiliath greatly if we only had the manpower. Instead Madril influences those…"

"Madril's counsel has saved numerous lives, including mine and those of my men," Faramir said, stepping away from his brother to confront Berethond. "On several occasions, your own men benefited from Madril's guidance. Perhaps one day you will realize how valuable the 'old fox' is to Gondor." With those last words, Faramir walked away to discuss something privately with his lieutenant.

"My brother looks upon Madril as a…."

"Father! Brother!" Beregond challenged, raising an accusing brow. "Beware Boromir, Madril may replace you in Faramir's eyes."

Camgond cleared his throat, halting Boromir's angry retort. During the conversation the captain-general had forgotten about the ranger. Obviously uncomfortable, Camgond bowed reverently to the superior officers, apologizing for unintentionally eavesdropping on the heated private conversation.

If meeting the captain general for the first time did not create enough anxiety for a soldier, having to withstand the intimidating scrutiny from Gondor's largest knight only added to it. "Your face is familiar to me," Boromir said, offering his hand to the man, attempting to resolve the tension. "Yet, I know not where I have seen you."

"Years I served with the third company of the citadel," Camgond answered, accepting the captain general's hand proudly. "Though the city is beautiful and the citadel guards a desired assignment, one grows tired of the confinement. A few months ago, I overheard Beregond talking about Captain Faramir and the rangers. It was then I asked for reassignment to Ithilien."

"You should be honored, the rangers are a very elite group," Boromir replied, watching in amusement as Berethond's mouth dropped open. "Acquaint yourself with the taverns and beauty of Minas Tirith."

Camgond smiled, grinning like a small child about to receive a well-earned treat. Bowing again, the ranger turned and started towards the gate but stopped in mid stride. A quick glance in several directions, Camgond discovered Faramir and Mablung standing near the Court of the Fountain. The ranger moved in their direction.

Unsure how trustworthy Faramir believed Camgond, Boromir started to warn his brother by mimicking a crow, but Faramir noticed the ranger instantly and signaled the ranger to approach. A brief conversation took place and moments later, Camgond hurried out of the citadel while Faramir and Mablung continued their conversation.

"Faramir has gotten his feet wet, Boromir," Berethond commented, never fearful to express his opinion. "How much longer is this experiment to continue?"

"His wish is to remain in Ithilien," Boromir commented, watching Mablung hand a burlap sack to his brother, who looked inside. Whatever the sack contained, Faramir was clearly shaken. Boromir considered involving himself in the conversation but relented. Faramir would confide in him when time permitted. He turned to his second in command. "Until my brother speaks differently, the rangers are his to command."

"I do not doubt Faramir's leadership abilities, however his talents are wasted in such a forsaken place," Berethond paused, sighing deeply when Boromir glared at him. "With your brother's capability, the rangers permanently placed in Anórien, Osgiliath would strengthen the city's defensives, and Faramir would not be overshadowed by Madril."

"Madril speaks only with admiration for his captain."

"And so little for my brother," the knight hissed. "If not for Madril…"

"Always you fault Madril," Boromir growled, frustrated over the never-ending argument. Seven years had past, and still Berethond refused to believe his older brother had deserted his post and died a coward's death when the Cair Andros garrison was attacked. Instead, Berethond turned his anger on Madril, blaming the ranger for not stopping the orcs before they reached the island. "How long will your eyes remain shut to the truth? If not for the rangers, Cair Andros would have been overrun."

"And always you defend the charlatan," Berethond bitterly replied. The gray eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and concern. "Heed my words least Faramir becomes a causality. Will you then hold Madril in the same regard? I doubt not."

"Hold your tongue!" Boromir hissed, glaring at Berethond with such intensity that one might feel they had overstepped their place. "Though my friend, not even you dare question my motives where Faramir is concerned."

Undaunted, the knight placed his large hand on Boromir's shoulder. "You forget whom you speak. Your brother is no less mine. I speak with only concern. This you know."

"Attempt not my favor. I will not relent."

"Forgiveness, I beg, Lord Boromir," Berethond declared, slowly going down to one knee. "If the captain-general would turn northward, this humble servant's lips would be in the perfect position to kiss his…"

"Enough!" Boromir sighed, rolling his eyes when the knight's lop-sided grin appeared whenever they would have a disagreement. As hard as he tried, he could never stay angry with Berethond. The knight knew him too well. He turned his head to keep from laughing and caught his brother's gaze. Faramir approached, nodding with a slight bob of the head, indicating he wanted a private conversation.

"May I have your leave, Captain General?" Berethond asked, understanding the familiar gesture between the two brothers. "The taverns await my stay."

"Try not escalating your reputation this season, Captain," Boromir replied. Berethond bowed respectfully, and offered to buy several off duty guards a drink at the nearest tavern. Boromir turned eastward, wanting to see the view across the Pelennor Fields. Finding the surrounding area empty, he discovered the perfect place for a private moment between two brothers. "Walk with me, little brother."

Faramir fell in step with his brother, locking his hands behind his back until they reached the stone seat and looked out across the Pelennor Fields. The view alone made the trip to Minas Tirith worthwhile.

Fifteen miles away, Osgiliath, the once proud Gondorian capital city, stood strong against the mighty River Anduin, and the enemy forces that kept trying to bring her down. Though only a fraction of its former glory, Osgiliath still astounded Boromir with its rich history and mythical lure.

Still further, beyond Osgiliath were the thick woods of Ithilien. A place of beauty where fresh air and vegetation were in abundance, and the countless times Gondor's enemies invaded the land, they had yet to diminished Ithilien's beauty.

"It takes your breath away, does it not?" Boromir replied, several minutes later. When no response came, he glanced at his brother, searching for a reason behind Faramir's silence. His brother had a habit of burying his emotions deeper than a dwarf's mine whenever their father was near, or something bothered him. With their father inside the tower, that eliminated Denethor as the cause. "What troubles you, my brother?"

Faramir turned, bright eyes sparkling with concern. Boromir smiled to himself. An elf had a better chance of living in Minas Tirith than his brother had keeping a secret from him.

"Madril's message brings news of another massacre along the shoreline," Faramir said, nervously twisting the burlap sack in his hand. "Boromir, these victims were not soldiers. They were farmers. Why they were in Ithilien, I know not, however they were defenseless against this executioner. I have not the men…"

"Peace, little brother. The Ithilien Rangers bare no blame in this assassin's schemes." Boromir placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "Nothing you could have done would have prevented the slayings, Faramir. Perhaps, Sauron has created a new creature that …"

"The creature is not of Sauron's making, he's Gondorian," Faramir said, lowering his voice fearful his words might be carried to the lower levels of the city. What he had to reveal, only his brother needed to hear. "The man taunts us, knowing when to strike and where. It is my belief he receives information from someone within Father's court."

"A traitor? What say Father concerning this matter?"

"I have not the chance. Uncle Imrahil arrived, and I was dismissed from Father's council abruptly. Whatever is amidst between the two of them, Father did not want a witness."

Boromir scratched his beard, speculating the secretive nature behind the meeting. "Have you a guess?"

"Uncle mentioned a name, and Father went cold."

"What name could upset our father?"

"Brandir, and he meant not the hero from the first age."

"Then the name, I know not. Have you checked the archives?"

"Many things I am, brother, but foolish I am not. Father has eyes within the city. We both know this. Why risk the Lord Steward's wrath so needlessly."

"I know you well, Faramir," Boromir said, raising an accusing brow. "Like Father, you will not rest until you uncover what you do not know."

"Suppose Brandir is…"

"Faramir," Boromir warned. "Heed my advice. Forget Brandir. He concerns you not."

"Have you a suggestion, Boromir? Perhaps ordering the rangers to grow flowers might discourage this invader," Faramir replied, refusing to relinquish control over the conversation. "Nay brother, Ithilien is under my command. Unless the Lord of the City or the High Warden of the White Tower deem me unfit for duty, I will do everything within my power to bring the slayer of our people to justice. If inconveniencing some is the price I must pay, then so be it."

"Never have you been defiant, little brother. What more have you not said?"

Faramir opened the burlap sack, reached inside, and carefully pulled out a silver dagger. The unique design craved into the dagger's blade caught Boromir's eye. He opened his hand, wanting to inspect the weapon closely, and his brother naturally obeyed.

The white swan embossed within Dol Amroth's flag, revealed who originally owned the weapon. "A Swan Knight," Boromir gasped in disbelief. "Where was this found?"

"Wedged in the chest of one of the victims," Faramir answered with a look of pure disgust. The Swan Knights were an elite military unit with honor and traditions that went back thousands of years. The knights were held in high regard, and for one to betray their oath was unthinkable. "Boromir, I fear the killer is one of Uncle Imrahil's men."


	6. Chapter 6

**A Matter of Trust**

**Kaleidopy**

Chapter Six

Boromir stared at the dagger, contemplating how he would reveal Faramir's revelation to their father. Without the silver dagger, the steward would have denounced Faramir's disclosure as pure speculation, refusing to believe a Swan Knight's honor was questionable. Now with the evidence in his hand, Denethor had no choice but to listen to his son.

"We shall wait in the Great Hall," Boromir stated, tucking the dagger beneath his belt. "If a Swan Knight is behind the slayings in Ithilien, the Steward and council must be made aware. I shall speak with Father concerning this matter."

"Brother," Faramir groaned, rolling his eyes at Boromir's suggestion. "I appreciate your concern. However, it is not necessary." Clasping a hand on Boromir's broad shoulder, Faramir smiled with reassurance. "Tis true, Father and I often disagree but never have I wavered in my duties." The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "I dread telling Uncle. When this is revealed, the Swan Knights' reputation will be tainted forever."

No words could have been truer. Imrahil, leader of the Swan Knights would take the news hard. A glance at his brother and Boromir contemplated speaking to Imrahil himself but thought better of it. Though he commanded the Gondorian armies, Faramir commanded Ithilien. Never would he consider intervening in his brother's affairs.

"Speak with uncle, alone," Boromir suggested, offering his experience in dealing with their uncle. Imrahil hated surprises, especially those that concerned the Swan Knights and Dol Amroth. "He should be made aware before the council learns of your discovery."

"That is my intention," Faramir answered, listening to the bells chiming in the noon hour. "Though I have been unable to see him. Father and uncle remain in conference until two hours more."

"We have a few hours yet," Boromir placed his arm around his brother's shoulders. "Come. My quarters are prepared. A bottle of wine requires my attention."

"Should I inquire where you got such a bottle?"

"Nay brother, to answer would require information I refuse to disclose, even to you. There are a few secrets I wish to remain mine."

Inside a crowded tavern, on the fifth level, Berethond sat alone drinking from a mug of ale relaxing and enjoying the atmosphere. Soldiers, many he had not seen in years, mixed with the locals, shared stories of war and conquest.

He lifted the mug to his lips, cringing at the horrible off-key song several drunken soldiers attempted to sing.

"Orcs in heat create better music," observed a new voice standing next to his table. Berethond lifted his eyes and found his Lossarnach counterpart staring down at him. "Greeting Berethond. How fare things in Osgiliath?"

"As always, not enough supplies, men and equipment," Berethond answered, motioning with his hand for the captain to sit down. "What brings you to the taverns, Lûthron? When in Minas Tirith, one would expect to find you sniffing behind Arthôn's robe."

"Always quick with the insults, Captain," the Lossarnach captain stated as he dragged a chair from a nearby table and dropped into it. "Arthôn is Lord of Lossarnach. You would do well to remember."

"Arthôn is Lord Forlong's kinsman, thus the reason the pampas ox bears the title," Berethond retorted, wiping away the ale from his upper lip. "Temporary, lord at that."

"Nay, my friend, the foreseeable future," Lûthron replied with assurance. "The family tragedy Lord Forlong's wife suffered has prolonged. Such sadness for the lady. With no male heir to make claim to the inheritance, Lord Forlong must remain to settle the estate. His return is not anticipated for several months. Thus Forlong requests Arthôn to retain his lordship upon his return."

"Why speak this news to me? Lossarnach concerns me not."

Lûthron heaved a heavy sigh. "Enough with the pleasantries. I seek your help."

"Why should I grant such a request?" Berethond asked, watching the man suspiciously. Something was amiss. Lûthron never wanted anything without a price.

"Persuade the captain-general to ease restrictions on my garrison and Lord Arthôn will repay the favor and aid your request for Osgiliath."

Berethond straightened in his chair, finally understanding the true reason behind the visit. Two months ago, a visiting envoy had been ambushed in Lossarnach, though the victims could not identify their hooded attackers, Boromir suspected several senior officers in the Lossarnach garrison, including Lûthron, who had acquired unexplained wealth. With no proof, the war council, under the captain-general's persuasion, ordered every captain in Gondor's military to keep detailed financial accounts until further ordered.

"Convince the captain-general to change his mind? Teaching a warg to fly would have better odds," Berethond snorted, remembering Lûthron's outburst during the war council's meeting. Though many captains objected, Lûthron's voice had been the most vocal. The knight shook his head. "Disagree or naught, the financial report boast Osgiliath's claim for much needed finances. The captains from Ithilien, Dol Amroth, and Cair Andros will support me in this matter."

"Very few. Have you knowledge of the other fiefdom captains?"

"It matters not. Lord Boromir's word is law. Move against him is treason."

Silence drifted between the two men as Lûthron studied the patrons inside the tavern. "Reconsider the offer," the Lossarnach captain suggested, returning his attention back to his counterpart. With a sly grin, Lûthron added, "Decline and regret your decision."

"You dare threaten me?" Berethond snapped, climbing to his feet to confront the man. With the council meeting hours away, he needed an excuse to release his pinned-up anxiety.

"Peace." Lûthron held up his hand, halting the knight from striking him. "Would evidence proving Madril lied concerning your brother's fate change your mind?"

Berethond stared dumbfounded, unable to vocally respond to Lûthron's claim. Slowly Berethond returned to his seat, unsure what he felt.

"Change our captain-general's mind and the evidence is yours," Lûthron vowed before leaving the tavern.

Berethond watched the man leave the tavern, contemplating Lûthron's tempting offer. For years, his fight for justice had been in vain, and now without trying, it falls in his lap. However, he now faced a challenging dilemma. Was revenge worth the price if it meant risking a lifelong friendship?

His dilemma was forgotten when an esquire rushed into the tavern, calling his name. A soldier pointed the young boy in his direction and Berethond waved the esquire to his table.

"Sir, a dispatch from the lieutenant," the young boy stated, saluting the superior officer before giving a sealed letter to Berethond. "My instructions were to deliver the message with haste and urgency. Once you have read the letter, I am to await your orders."

Berethond opened the letter and started reading. His lieutenant's words scribbled in such haste it took Berethond a few minutes to read the message. "Go to the citadel. Report to Lord Boromir," the knight ordered, climbing to his feet as he folded the letter. "Inform the captain-general that I have business in Osgiliath. If all goes well, I shall return before the council meeting and reveal all."

"Aye sir," the escort again saluted before leaving the tavern to obey Berethond's order.


	7. Chapter 7

A Matter of Trust

Kaleidopy

Chapter Seven

For the past two hours Boromir had used the finest Gondorian wine to relax his brother but one glance at Faramir and Boromir could only shake his head in defeat. The moment they entered the Tower of Ecthelion Faramir's demeanor resembled a condemned man going to his execution.

"Remind me why I sacrificed my birthday present on you?"

"Was not the company reward enough brother," Faramir answered somberly. He stared up at the tall marble statues of ancient kings of Gondor wishing those days would return. Of late, the tower only held bad memories for him. Most of the confrontations he and his father had took place within these hallowed walls.

"If my Lords have need of me." A door warden bowed, waiting instructions.

"The steward and the lords of Gondor?" Boromir asked, inquiring information on his father and the councils' location.

"Lord Denethor remains with Prince Imrahil, behind closed doors in the conference chambers. The Lords Angbor, Hirluin, Golasgil, and Arthôn have gathered inside the Great Hall of Feast."

The captain general nodded pleased with the answer. With the fiefdom lords stuffing themselves, making bargains and talking politics, Boromir planned to avoid the building as long as possible. Legally, he had the perfect excuse. Captains of the White Tower were obligated to report to the steward upon entrance inside the city.

"When the Lord of the city returns, inform Lord Denethor I await his presence in the Tower Hall," Boromir replied, sweeping past the door wardens as he made the trek through the large room. The heavy doors closed behind him, shutting out the citadel's outdoor activity.

He placed his hand on the steward's chair and stared up at the dais of steps and the long abandon throne. Though his father believed differently, Boromir saw no reason why the House of Hurin could not claim the throne of Gondor. He turned back around to find his brother staring at him.

"Your eyes accuse me harshly, brother," he replied, wishing Faramir's ability to read him wasn't so strong. When Faramir straightened, Boromir caught a glimpse of silver shinning around his brother's neck. Curious, he stepped down the steps and approached his brother. "What is that you wear around your neck?"

Faramir's hand moved to his neck. "It…it is a gift,"

"A gift?" Boromir inquired suspiciously. He opened his brother's tunic, exposing a silver necklace. Examining the jewelry, Boromir lifted it between his finger and thumb amazed at the superior quality. "This an unique gift, little brother. Mithril. Who gave you such a prize?"

His brother lowered his head, refusing to answer.

"What is this?" he asked, lifting his brother's chin forcing Faramir to look at him. "Never have we kept secrets from one another. What has changed that you no longer confide in my counsel?"

"It is a long story."

"And I am bored, enlighten me."

"Several weeks past, my men discovered an unconscious dwarf, badly injured and severely dehydrated. Though I believed the dwarf would die, I could not leave him. I carried him to Henneth Annûn where he slowly recovered. The dwarf lived, and as a token of thanks, gave me this," Faramir said, touching the necklace. "He claimed Narvi created the necklace with Mithril from within Dwarrowdelf."

"Narvi? Dwarrowdelf? You speak in riddles."

"Narvi? Surely, Boromir you have heard of the great dwarf craftsman from Dwarrowdelf." When Boromir shook his head, baffled at the foreign name, Faramir heaved a frustrated sigh. "Khazad-dum? The mines of Moria?"

Boromir's eyes narrowed, unimpressed with the history of the Dwarves. "I care not for dwarves, their mines, or foolish folk lore," he said, troubled by his brother's revelation. How could his brother have been so stupid as to risk his life over a trespasser? Did Faramir even care? He angrily grabbed the younger man and jerked him forward. "You allowed a stranger, a dwarf no less, to enter and leave Gondor unmolested. Have you no reasoning for the danger you placed yourself? If he had harmed you, I would have…"

"Trust me, brother. He was no threat," Faramir whispered, reassuring his older sibling. The anger and fear slowly left Boromir's eyes. "And I could no more harm another being without cause. Doing so would make us no better than Sauron."

"What if Father had learned of this?"

"He does not know."

"We will speak no more of this, Faramir," Boromir said, releasing his brother. "Least you risk Father's wrath and…"

"Must you always attempt to hide your brother's weaknesses from me?" A familiar, yet irritated voice asked from behind them.

"Father," Boromir replied humbly. Respectfully he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head as Denethor and Imrahil emerged from the shadows.

"Arise, my son," Denethor stated, stretching out his hand in an upward motion. Angered by the conversation he had witnessed, he turned his fury on his youngest. "Rebellion is on traitorous lips, and my own son encourages those not loyal to Gondor to enter our realm and take it from us."

"Tis only a dwarf, Father," Boromir said defending his brother.

"A dwarf, that we know, Boromir," Denethor retorted, keeping his eyes on Faramir. "What other creatures have you allowed to walk freely through our lands? Elves? Istars?" At the mention of Istars the steward's eyes widened. "Ah, I detect Mithrandir's hand in this plot against me."

"Father, Mithrandir…"

"Defend not the bringer of doom, Faramir. The gray pilgrim seeks to dethrone me, and I will not permit him to take Gondor from me." Denethor cupped the young man's chin, squeezing it gently. "Mithrandir fills your head with tales of lore and places afar. Trust not his words, my son, they will lead you astray." He released his hold and turned to Boromir. "You are your brother's keeper, are you not?"

"I am not a child, Father," Faramir angrily replied. "Long has it been since anyone watched my steps. Years has it been since I was last reprimanded for childish….."

"Years, my son?" Denethor asked, amused at his youngest's unusual display of defiance. "Perhaps you have forgotten the incident with the dog and Lord Meneldil five months ago? I assure you, he has not forgotten, nor does he permit me to forget."

The incident, as his father called it, had occurred on the sixth level during the spring festival. A large dog, Faramir had rescued and kept in the stables, held a strong dislike for the councilman. Meneldil constantly antagonized the animal, making several attempts to remove the dog while Faramir was in Ithilien, but the dog always found its way back to the stables to await Faramir's homecoming.

On that unforgettable day, Meneldil entered the stable unaware of Faramir's recent arrival. The instant Meneldil saw the young man, the dog snarled and then charged the councilman. In a panic, Meneldil tried to flee but stumbled into a stall and landed face first in a pile of horse manure.

The memory was still amusing but Faramir knew better than to voice it openly. "I apologized to Lord Meneldil, and gave the dog to Targon. He assured me that the dog will never cross paths with the councilman again."

"A worthwhile diplomatic solution, Faramir. Had you reached it sooner, the incident with Lord Meneldil never would have happened," Denethor was quick to mention. "Such inconsistency only proves your immaturity, my son."

"Father, I am well aware of Lord Meneldil's wounded pride, but I fail to understand how this one incident has condemned my abilities in your eyes."

"One incident?" Denethor taunted, smiling shrewdly. "Was it not you, Faramir who asked to journey with Mithrandir to the Misty Mountains?" Before Faramir could answer Denethor added, "If Mithrandir told you trees could talk, you would believe him."

Boromir snorted, laughing at the asinine remark.

"I find your humor severely lacking, Boromir," Denethor said, turning his anger on his eldest. "Perhaps after Sauron enters the city will you consider the seriousness of this situation."

"My apologies, Father. I meant no disrespect. Gondor's safety is always my first concern. Thus, the reason Faramir and I await your council. As well as Uncle Imrahil." Boromir pulled out the dagger and showed it to his father and uncle.

"Where did you get this?" Imrahil demanded, inspecting the weapon carefully. "This craftsmanship is unique, and has not been used in forty years."

"Where did you find this dagger?" Imrahil demanded, inspecting the weapon carefully. "The craftsmanship is unique. It has not been used in forty years."

Faramir quickly explained how he discovered the weapon and then made a foreboding conclusion. "I believe it was left as a message for…"

"The steward of Gondor…." Denethor interrupted, declaring in a foreboding voice. The steward turned his back to the trio and walked towards the throne. Slowly he lowered himself in the steward's seat, heaved a long exasperated sigh before he spoke. "Imrahil, no longer can we deny what we both fear. You, as well as I, know whom the dagger belongs."

Imrahil lowered his head. "Aye, it belongs to Brandir. It is as we feared. He lives."

Dol Amroth

Inside the royal bedchamber, the aging prince of Dol Amroth slept peacefully. Prince Adrahil II had fought numerous battles and faced many powerful enemies but the recent illness he was recovering had been his greatest foe. The fiefdom's respected healers had offered powerful remedies hoping they might restore their beloved monarch's health. After several attempts, the prince finally showed improvement.

Moonlight bathed the large bedchamber, giving off an eerie glow that illuminated the room for its elderly occupant. The open ceiling to floor windows allowed the silk curtains to flow carelessly on the gentle sea air breeze that freshened the room.

Guards posted outside his door, each trained to act upon the slightest sound that might cause their monarch harm stood at attention, unaware of the present danger lurking inside Prince Adrahil's chambers.

A lone shadow approached the large bed, silently he picked up a pillow, squeezed it tightly with both hands. "Your highness," he hissed, barely above a whisper. The instant the prince's eyes opened, the pillow was placed across the royal's face. "No, old one. You will not deny me my vengeance. Long have I waited, long have I tasted it. Now you shall be the first to know it."

Adrahil tried to scream but his attacker pressed the pillow harder into his face. In an egotistic move, the attacker deliberately shifted his movements to allow the prince to see his face.

"Yes, it is I, Brandir," the attacker identified himself after Adrahil's eyes widened in recognition. "Had you not interfered, Finduilas would be alive today. I blame you as much as I blame Denethor for her death. You denied Finduilas her happiness now I deny you your life."

Adrahil tried to scream but his attacker pressed the pillow harder into his face, cutting off his protest.

"She loved me, not him. Yet, you cared not. Finduilas was but a pawn to straightened your alliance between Ecthelion and Minas Tirith. Had she not gone to that cursed city, she would have been my wife, not Denethor's."

The struggles become less intense, growing weaker.

"Fear not, Denethor shall suffer worse…much worse." Brandir bent down, whispering close to the prince's ear. "I shall take from him as he took from me. Yes, old man, I know what the Steward of Gondor stole from me. I shall reclaim it as Finduilas would have wanted. Had you not meddled, had Denethor not interfered, your grandsons would not have suffered the loss of their mother."

Adrahil used the last of his remaining strength to push the pillow away.

Momentary stunned, Brandir shoved the pillow back in place and pushed down harder, leaving it there until he was certain the Prince of Dol Amroth was dead.

Gently placing the pillow underneath Adrahil's head, Brandir smiled down at his dead adversary. Shortly, the prince's body will be discovered, and from all appearances, Adrahil would have died peacefully in his sleep.

He turned, walked to where the secret compartment awaited him. Years ago, as a high-ranking member of the elite Swan Knights, Brandir had been privileged to the castle's many secrets. Those secrets had given him unrestricted access to places inside the castle unknown to most. As time passed, Brandir's name diminished in Dol Amroth and later forgotten. It was the only mistake Adrahil had made, a fatal one, just as Brandir had predicted.


End file.
